


Alone, Without Friends

by NoBaggage



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: #BeforeTheSummerPalace, #ControllingLaurent, #Dadissues, #Damengrieving, #Damensinjuriesweremoreserious, #Desperatelovemaking, #Laurentlearnstowrestle, #Nikandrosfrustrated, #Nikandrosisabro, #PostKingsRising, #SweetDamen&Laurentmoments, #Uncleissues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 00:51:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11197014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoBaggage/pseuds/NoBaggage
Summary: Explores the time betweenKings RisingandThe Summer Palace, inspired by snippets given to us inThe Summer Palace.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks yet again to my dear friends, [Rinabina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinabina/pseuds/rinabina) and Virginia, for their pre-reads, their corrections, challenges and ideas.

**_From The Summer Palace:_ **

_The blood loss, at that point, was possibly quite severe, because Damen recalled little beyond the pallet arriving, and his own blurry surprise at finding himself in his father’s rooms._

_…_

_The weeks of bed rest had been a nuisance: the first hazy days that Damen couldn’t recall well, followed by the nuisance of physicians._

_…_

_He remembered Laurent, giving orders in that even voice wiped clean of emotion._

_…_

_The number of times that they had made love were still finite enough that Damen could remember each one of them…the desperation of their first lovemaking after Damen’s recovery._

These snippets, about the time between _Kings Rising_ and _The Summer Palace_ made me curious, made me imagine, how it might have been. 

I needed more. 

I wish I had the gift of Cat’s words (I borrowed a few) but anyway, here’s my version of it.


	2. A fallen king

**Nikandros**

The peeling of bells, heralding the new king, ended at last. The sound continued to reverberate, throughout the palace hallways, inside Nikandros’s ears.

He was familiar with killing. He was a soldier. He’d killed in battle, he’d killed in defence of his country, his Exalted, King Theomedes, more recently King Damianos and very reluctantly, for Laurent of Vere.

It didn’t mean that he killed without conscience.

Once Laurent and Damen were released from their shackles and the Regent was dead, there was a moment of mild chaos and confusion. Allegiances were challenged, choices made. Many chose, almost with relief, to pledge their loyalty to the new king, the true king of Akielos.

This soldier had chosen unwisely. He was splayed at Nikandros’s feet. 

Nikandros pressed his boot on the young man’s armoured breastplate and withdrew his sword from his belly, dripping with blood. The soldier was young, no more than twenty. His youthful complexion was no longer fresh. It was slack with a death that had arrived upon him too soon. A waste.

There wasn’t time to think about that. He needed to find Damen.

Nikandros had grown up in the palace. He had been Damen’s companion in arms, his accomplice for mischief.

When Prince Damianos reached maturity, Nikandros, several years his senior, had been the one to pull Damen out of his numerous escapades and ill chosen dalliances, the one to clean up the mess left in Damen’s lustful wake. He hadn’t minded. Damianos was virile, full of good-natured hubris and the devilment typical of royalty. He was also a good and loyal friend. As his wingman, Nikandros had benefited from mending more than the odd broken heart when a young maiden had set her sights on the handsome prince. 

Damen also possessed more admirable qualities than anyone Nikandros had known. With maturity and experience, he was certain Damianos would make an honourable and just sovereign. He hoped Damen’s recent experiences had finally taught him to trust less blindly. 

Then he remembered the way Damen looked at Laurent…and he sighed.

There were more imminent concerns.

The greatest threat right now was Kastor, escaping the palace and attempting to build a resistance to challenge Damen’s rule. Because Nikandros and Damen’s recent experiences had diverged so greatly, Nikandros had followed the same path through the palace as Kastor. He had not taken the shortcut through the slave baths. 

He arrived too late, bursting through the doorway at the top of the marble staircase, chest heaving. His breath caught at the sight before him.

There was a great deal of blood.

It dripped, sluggish and slow from the top of the stairs to the white tiles below where it had formed a dark, unmoving pool.

Kastor’s blood.

The traitor lay, slumped, an almost surprised expression in his vacant eyes. The blood from the wound at his neck was already beginning to darken and congeal. His chiton was drenched with it. There might have been another wound in his side. It was hard to tell. The fact that he was dead was not in dispute.

At the bottom of the stairs, more blood. It spread out beneath Damen, too far, skid marks beneath his sandal clad heels. Nikandros felt his heart sink along with his footsteps as he descended the staircase. Damen was unconscious, his gold slave’s wrist band cinched to a chainlink on the floor.

Damen was lying in the arms of the Prince of Vere, who was wearing his own filthy chiton also stained with blood. Whose blood Nikandros wasn’t sure. Despite this, Laurent appeared unscathed. His impassive eyes intent on Nikandros, assessing. Laurent had one hand pressed low on Damen’s abdomen, dark blood seeped between his fingers.

Nikandros tried to make sense of it.

The simplest explanation was that Damen had been injured while dispatching his brother. Why then was he chained to the floor?

It was impossible to understand Laurent’s motives and therefore trust him with any degree of certainty. That Damen was in love with this man, well beyond reason, was not in doubt. Whether Laurent of Vere was capable of feeling any emotion, much less love, was more difficult to ascertain. 

Yet, Nikandros had witnessed, a short time ago, Laurent, dirty and tired, about to be sentenced to death by his own council, using the last of his currency to clear Damen’s name before the combined court of Akielos and Vere.

There wasn’t time. 

Damen’s life was hanging in the balance and action needed to be taken.

Laurent said, “Fetch a pallet to carry him on, and a physician. Now.”

Nikandros had mourned Damen’s death once before. He wasn’t prepared to do it again so soon. He said, “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

“Then he’ll bleed to death.”

Lydos and Atkis skidded in to the landing at the top of the stairs, swords at the ready. “The king,” said Atkis, breathless. The horror at what he was witnessing was clear on his face. “Is he…?”

With a curt movement of his hand, Nikandros gave the order to fetch the pallet and find Paschal.

“No. An Akielon physician,” snapped Laurent. His gaze upon Nikandros was steadfast. “Unless you want outright war declared when Damianos dies at the hand of a Veretian.”

“Find both,” Nikandros commanded. His eyes stayed, unmoving on Laurent. He took six steps forward and knelt beside Damen, his knee resting on sticky blood. The rusty, familiar scent filled his nostrils. “Damen,” he said. He placed his hand on the arm of his friend and was grateful to find it warm.

Damen moaned and opened his eyes. He looked at Laurent. He started to smile but his mouth fell slack at the effort. Their eyes locked on each other. Nikandros saw everything shared between them in an instant. 

Nikandros repeated, “Damen,” and watched his friend turn his head. Too slow. 

Damen’s eyes were unfocused and his words thick, “Help him. Help the Prince of Vere.” He fainted and his head rolled back. Laurent supported his neck with one hand, the other remained pressed to Damen’s abdomen. He was cradling the much larger man but his expression was shuttered again.

Nikandros spoke near Damen’s ear, “Hold on. Help is near.”

“They had best be quick about it,” Laurent’s eyes flitted from the top of the open marble stairs to the curved archway where Atkis and Lydos had departed. Damen moaned softly and Nikandros noticed the bunching of muscles as Laurent tightened his hold.

He ran his eyes over the Veretian prince. Despite how he was holding Damen, protectively close to his own body, and the way he had gazed at him moments ago, his expression now was devoid of emotion, impassive and regally aloof.

“I don’t understand you or what you really want from him. At all.”

Laurent smiled but it was strained and tinged with bitterness. “My dear Nikandros, that happens to be your most appealing trait…and the reason I trust you.”


	3. A waspish prince

They lay Damen gently on the bed in King Theomedes's chambers. It took four soldiers to carry his pallet with enough care to appease Laurent. Damen’s dark skin was in stark contrast to the whiteness of the bedding. A temporary bandage was wrapped around his abdomen, already soaked with blood.

From the outflung balcony, a gust of wind, flavoured with salt and orange blossom. It ruffled hair and swirled cloaks.

Laurent said, “Stand back. Give the Exalted fresh air.”

Like a wave pulling from the shore, the soldiers moved, so did the pages who had followed them, the physicians, the already prostrated slaves slid back further on their bared knees. Even Nikandros felt himself take a step away from the bed. They moved as one, heads turned, facing Laurent, poised.

It struck Nikandros as preposterous; here was this youth, filthy from two days held captive, matted hair, wearing a torn and bloodied chiton, nothing to signify his rank. He was commanding the entire chambers through presence alone. For all that Nikandros distrusted his motives, he had to admit there was something splendid about him.

Laurent turned his piercing eyes on the physicians “You’re awaiting an invitation? I’d bow to your greater wisdom, but it would appear most of the blood normally contained by the king's body is presently outside of it.” As though coming out of a trance, the physicians, Paschal and an Akielon named Hesperos, hastened toward Damen.

Laurent added, “Clean the wound before you seal it. Do everything possible to ensure he survives. The fate of Akielos lies in your hands.”

No pressure then, thought Nikandros, noticing Hesperos stretch and clench his fingers to stop them shaking. Laurent stood a short distance away, near enough to observe with a critical eye everything that was being done to Damen.

From the opposite site of the bed, Nikandros was torn between watching the physicians work over Damen and fascination at Laurent’s unemotional command of everything and everyone.

Since Fortaine, Nikandros had spent many hours observing the Prince of Vere. He still couldn’t draw a definitive conclusion on his character. The way Laurent could hold multiple and often competing thoughts and schemes in his mind and execute orders to serve them was impressive. When he chose to do so, he exuded charm. He was an astute reader of people. He took on a hard case like Makedon and won him over, demonstrating physical prowess beyond his deceptively prettified appearance. But he was brutal when he decided to unleash his colourful invective upon anyone who displeased him.

Nikandros had been on the receiving end of such an encounter. He felt his colour rise as he recalled the horror of seeing Damen’s scars, exposed on the field to Akielons and Veretians alike, watching as Damen wrestled Pallas, naked. The scars were healed but not faded. They crisscrossed his shoulders to the middle of his back, angry and red. The initial shock was nothing compared to the hot shame that followed it. The utter disgrace at what had been done to his king and therefore to all Akielons.

Later, in the tent, trying to come to terms with it, needing to see the scars up close, to feel them. He had spread his hands across Damen’s back as Damen stood, naked to the waist. Laurent had breezed into that private moment before setting the tent in flames. After his easy, almost prideful admission of being responsible for the beating, he had then added, “He sucked my cock too.” Those words had been delivered to heap on the offence, to provoke, to push Nikandros beyond endurance. They had. Only Damen’s authoritative command had prevented outright violence at the insult.

Nikandros noticed now, Laurent’s pallid complexion, visible under the dirt, signifying utter exhaustion. Yet his eyes were sharp, body held taut, his concentration complete. As though he was exerting an extreme force of will to ensure he remained alert until Damen was out of danger.

The question was, for what purpose?

There was a deep sound of pain from the bed and Laurent moved with the intent of a hawk nearing it’s target. When he reached Damen he slowed, and with infinite tenderness, moved the hair back from Damen’s brow, bending low, keeping his hands on him. Laurent had his back to all in the room except Nikandros who was shocked to see a soft, concerned expression spread across Laurent’s face. Damen raised his hand, as though to return the touch, but it fell back, heavy on the bed.

Damen breathed, “Laurent.” And as his eyes closed, he smiled. They opened again, suddenly and with urgent purpose, wheeling, searching the room. He raised his voice, croaking, “Nikandros.”

Nikandros went to Damen’s other side and griped his forearm, moving his face into Damen’s line of sight. “I am here, my friend.”

Damen blinked, slow and heavy, “One kingdom,” he worked his dry mouth, then spoke again, “It is to be one kingdom. Nikandros. Follow him. Obey Laurent’s command as you would mine.”

“Yes, Damianos.”

“Your word.” Sweat had broken on Damen’s brow and top lip, the hair at his temples was soaked.

“You have it, Exalted.”

“Good.” He smiled. His eyes closed and did not open again.

Whilst the physicians worked, there was a steady procession of fresh water held in glass or copper bowls; they came into the chambers clear and left stained muddy red. Along with the varied accoutrement of the physicians, came soldiers and palace officials, delivering reports, seeking orders. Some reported to Laurent, others to Nikandros.

The sky beyond the balcony changed from deep blue to purple tinged with orange and finally black. White swirls of glittering stars streaked alongside thin lines of cloud.

Amis, a senior officer of about thirty-five from Regent’s guard, and the first soldier to remove the Regent’s insignia from his shoulder, came to formally pledge his allegiance to Laurent, along with that of the men under his command. Amis was a career soldier, trained to serve his true crown with his life. His face was open and serious, brown hair brushed his shoulders and his beard was broken by thick scar tissue from an old wound to his cheek and jaw. In a resonant and respectful tone, Amis assured Laurent that any remaining soldiers from the Regent’s guard who had refused loyalty to the crown prince had been dealt with. A number had fallen, most had pledged allegiance to the starburst banner.

“Deal with the dead as you would any soldier killed in battle,” said Laurent.

It was what Nikandros would have said in the same position.

Laurent’s men from the road, lead by Jord, brought forward senior members of the Akielon guard, ready to pledge their loyalty to the new regime. There were reports of those who had been killed or taken prisoner. Decisions were made, soldiers moved out to execute any orders, riders sent to Karthas. All the while, the physicians worked.

It was Laurent who decided that the soldiers chosen to guard the king be drawn from both Veretian and Akielon ranks, a visible declaration of his and Damen’s shared future. “I want two soldiers posted outside the king’s chambers at all times. Two more outside with eyes on the balcony and any possible access points to the royal chambers. Go.”

There was an occasional groan from Damen which would temporarily divert Laurent’s attention until he ascertained there was no imminent threat. Then back to the business of new rule.

It was evident to Nikandros that in all these dealings, Laurent was demonstrating a surprising depth of knowledge of the political and royal functions of the Akielon court. He also had a natural gift for ruling and making definitive decisions.

At last the physicians stepped away, as bloodied and exhausted as anyone in the room. Damen’s clothing had been cut away to allow access. His modesty was covered but the broad expanse of his torso was on display, powerfully muscled and at odds with how vulnerable he appeared, unconscious.

Paschal waved forward a slave to bathe Damen, making him comfortable for the night.

Laurent said, “Your prognosis?” He had turned to the Akielon physician first. Nikandros thought Laurent might have been wondering if this man had attended King Theomedes before his death. He had.

Hesperos had been part of the kings’ household for many years. His unusually long face gave him hollowed cheeks and a haunted look. When he spoke he displayed a set of widely spaced teeth of a startling shade of yellow. Instead of answering Laurent directly, Hesperos reached into a pocket of his robes and withdrew his divining stones. He closed his eyes, holding the stones in one hand while the fingers of the other danced above. He went into a trance-like state, mumbling in a deep, tuneful manner, words from an ancient dialect.

Nikandros, who didn’t believe in this religious nonsense himself, had to look away to prevent his laugh at the expression on Laurent’s face, which for a change, hid nothing of what he felt.

At last, Hesperos opened his eyes. He threw the divining stones into the air and bent his wizened body to read their message as they splayed out on the stone floor. He peered and scratched his grey thatch for several moments before announcing, “The Exalted is strong. He will recover his good health. So say the gods.”

Laurent released a breath. “I see.” He peered nominally at the stones then blinked up at the old charlatan. “Thank you for your attendance. You may return in the morning to check on the king’s progress.”

Hesperos bowed, casting a glance at Nikandros before backing out of the chambers.

Nikandros dismissed the remaining palace officials, the soldiers, everyone in attendance beyond himself and Paschal.

Laurent loosened his shoulders a little. He sighed and closing his eyes, massaged the skin between them. “Paschal?”

“He _is_ strong, your Highness. He has faced worse.”

Laurent looked up, alert to something in Paschal’s tone. “There’s something else.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Damianos lost a great deal of blood. We needed to clean and seal the wound quickly. You know that his organs had begun to push through the wound?”

“I felt them when I was pressing on it.”

“Your Highness. I saw no evidence of damage to his organs…but…if the knife pierced…if he loses waste into his body cavity…”

“Go on.”

“There is a chance it will poison his body and kill him.”

Laurent sat heavily on a solid oak chair.

“The risk is small, your Highness.”

“What do we do?”

“Keep the wound clean. Feed him liquids only. Water and clear broth, whenever he will accept them. Keep him cool. There is likely to be fever. Once the fever breaks and he passes waste with no problems, we will know he is in the clear.”

Laurent sagged a little in the chair.

Paschal said, “Shall I stay with him through the night?”

“No. I’ll do it. Stay near.”

Nikandros nodded to Paschal and watched the physician depart, a deep frown etched on the older man’s face.

Laurent’s face was hidden by his hand. Nikandros cleared his throat, expecting to also be dismissed.

From behind his hand, Laurent spoke, “No. Not you.”


	4. A private audience

“Your Highness,” Nikandros’s mouth twisted on the unfamiliar title. He seated himself in an oak chair nearby and waited. 

Where they sat, in the palace built above the white cliffs with a pillared view from the balcony to the open darkness, the evening air was still and warm but in the distance, the sound of waves beating endlessly against rugged stone was discernible. 

Laurent exhaled a long breath and looking at Nikandros, straightened in his seat. “You may enter, Loyse.”

Nikandros startled to see Guion’s wife entered the chambers. She withdrew a scroll from deep within her long sleeves.

“Over there, on the table,” Laurent pointed to a carved pedestal along a wall. Loyse unrolled the parchment. She took two heavy, iridescent glass candlesticks and placed one at either end, flattening the document. Laurent said, “You have honoured the alliance with this service. You may retire.”

Loyse looked no less exhausted than any of them, wilted and dirty. “My husband…” she began.

Laurent raised his palm, “For now, he stays under guard. His betrayal was public.” Nikandros saw Guion’s wife place a hand on a nearby wall for support. Laurent added, “But your honour and loyalty count in his favour. I will deal with his fate once Akielos is secure.”

“Your Highness.” Loyse bowed and departed.

Laurent turned to Nikandros and waved toward the parchment. “This is the agreement signed by myself and Damen at Fortaine. The details of our alliance.”

Nikandros passed a hand over his face. This level of calculation, this was one of the things that troubled him. “I see you have thought of everything,”

Laurent threw a glance at the bed. “Not quite.” He squared his shoulders and faced the entry to the chambers. Three slaves stood, heads bowed low, bearing trays laden with food; cured meats, fresh cheese, olives and bread. He raised his voice, “Enter.” 

The slaves arranged the food beside Laurent but within easy reach of Nikandros and beat a hasty exit. 

Laurent said, “Help yourself. I haven’t eaten in two days. I believe this is about to become the greatest meal of my existence.” 

Before he began, Laurent dipped his hands into one of the warm wash bowls that had been provided and used a soft cloth to clean, fastidiously between each finger and nail. Nikandros would have been well pleased to simply dig into the food, but he chose to follow suit, considering that Laurent’s hunger must be greater than his own.

Laurent then heaped a plate with food and between appreciative bites, continued, “We need to interview and assess anyone in a position of authority and purge those from the court who showed loyalty to Kastor and his alliance with my uncle.”

Nikandros hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he started eating. He hadn’t tasted food this familiar or of such good quality for some time. He took a draught of cool water to wash down some bread and said, “Jord reported to me the capture of many during the skirmish. We are already holding them under guard.”

Laurent delicately removed an olive pit from his mouth and placed it in a small dish. “These are good.” He selected another and held it between his long, pale fingers. “We must act quickly. You have a candidate loyal to Damianos that you wish to appoint to replace Meniados as Kyros of Sicyon?” He popped the olive into his mouth.

“I do.”

After removing the second pit, Laurent used a knife to spread soft cheese on a piece of flatbread. His eyebrows lifted in appreciation of the taste as he chewed. His mouth was held soft while he savoured the flavours. It was so unlike his usual tightlipped scowl that Nikandros found himself staring at the sensual curve of his lips. He forced his eyes onto his own plate. 

Nikandros had tumbled the occasional male slave in his time but his preference was certainly for woman. Even so, he was beginning to learn how Damen had come to be entranced, not only by this man’s intricate mind but his startling beauty. It was a deadly combination.

Laurent touched a napkin to his mouth and said, “We need to choose someone who will sit well with Makedon. His loyalty to date has been hard won. We cannot risk alienating him further. Vannes has Marlas. I believe in time she will win Makedon over. She enjoys the hunt.

They continued to eat and talk. Laurent’s manner was changed from the detached one he employed earlier to the full room. Now he was personable, engaged, despite his exhaustion. Nikandros was unsettled to find that he was enjoying Laurent’s company, perhaps for the first time. They shared common understandings and seemed to be working well together. There was no need for overt explanations or reasoning.

Nikandros said, “You may not be aware, Tychon of Kesus was present at today’s…trial. He challenged the guard and was killed. An immediate replacement for Kyros of Kesus would be advised.”

There was a shout in the distance, a changing of guards on the battlements. 

Laurent leaned back in his chair and ran the fingers of one hand through his matted hair, pushing it behind his ear. Then he tapped a nail on the silver chalice he held loosely in the other hand. He had to be beyond exhaustion but the clarity in his blue eyes was startling. “Your counsel in these appointments is vital. I would like to hear your candidates, the points for and against before a final decision is made. Tomorrow.”

“As you wish.”

“Reinforcements will arrive from Karthas by late morning. I suggest we concentrate our efforts on Ios before we send battalions to the northern provences, Mellos, Dice, Thrace and Aegina. They will be more easily won once they know that Ios is stable.”

“I am certain Aegina and Thrace will remain loyal to Damen. But I agree about the battalions.”

Laurent nodded, adding another olive pit to the dish. His lips were lightly sheened with oil. It was ludicrous, as filthy and bloodied as he was that he still commanded a regal and attractive presence.

Laurent said, “Until Damianos is well enough, it will be important that these decisions are mostly announced by you, on his behalf. In private, all decisions must first be cleared with me. You must accept this.”

Nikandros nodded. He didn’t like it but he had given Damen his word.

“First order of business will be to appoint you as Kyros of Ios. Arrange for any loyal palace officials to be in attendance.”

“Your Highness.” Nikandros lowered his head. He couldn’t hide the fact that he desired this position, this responsibility. It was the highest honour. “My first command will be to remove Kastor’s head and display the extent of his treason to all of Damen’s people.”

Laurent pursed his lips. “That would be…unwise.”

“With respect, Damen killed Kastor. He would want this. It is our way.”

Laurent brushed crumbs from his lap. He pushed on the flat arms of his chair and rose, strolling the length of the chamber and pausing beside the bed, looking down and running his fingers along Damen’s bare arm. “Damen wasn’t the one to kill Kastor. Kastor begged for mercy and Damen was willing to allow it.” 

Sensing the touch, Damen opened his eyes. His lips were chapped and dry. Laurent sat on the edge of the bed and reached around Damen’s back, under his arms, hefting him into a half-seated position. Damen grimaced but made no sound. Holding him steady with an arm around his shoulders, Laurent put a cup to his lips and helped him to take a few sips. Damen said nothing, just stared up at Laurent’s face as though nothing else existed. Satisfied that enough water had been taken, Laurent eased him back down on the bed. Fresh sweat had broken across Damen’s face from the effort of moving. Still seated next to him, and with the tenderness of a wet nurse, Laurent wiped a soft, damp cloth over his brow and cheeks. Within moments, Damen was asleep. 

When Laurent turned back to face Nikandros, the cool aloofness had returned. “The moment Damen dropped his guard, Kastor sliced him. When I walked in,” he paused and swallowed noticeably, “Kastor was about to finish him.” He lifted his brows. “I finished Kastor instead.”

“You?” Nikandros knew his expression was incredulous. 

Then, the weight of all that it meant settled upon him.

Laurent watched patiently, allowing Nikandros to work through his reactions. “I know,” Laurent began, smoothing Damen’s bedding. “It seems simple enough. A brother for a brother.” Laurent looked at Damen, his face in profile to Nikandros, his true expression hidden. His hair was swept back, stiff with dirt and grease. In the evening lamplight, it only accentuated the perfect planes of his face. “I assure you, the truth is much more complicated. I offered my life for his…twice today. Yet you still find it hard to believe my loyalty to him, my…devotion. I respect that. I prefer to earn your trust over time with future actions rather than meaningless words.” 

Nikandros considered for a long moment before he decided what he should say next. “If Kastor had betrayed Damen yet again, I feel certain he would want him shown publicly for the treasonous monster he was.”

Laurent stood and walked back toward Nikandros. He held up his hand. “No.”

Nikandros swallowed the immediate retort that rose within him. He had given Damen his word.

“Kastor’s body will be prepared according to custom, to be placed in the royal crypt. When Damen is well enough, he can decide his final fate.”

Nikandros swallowed the bile that inched up the back of his throat. He nodded. It was some time before he found he could speak again.

It was more than two hours of discussing strategy, trawling over maps of Akielos and identifying regions and minor nobility most at risk of dissension. Finally, Laurent stretched in his chair. The chiton rode up, exposing his long thighs.

“One more thing. In the interests of establishing closer ties between our nations, I would like to begin instruction in some traditional Akielon customs.”

“You seem extremely well versed on our governance and ways already.”

“That is knowledge that can easily be gleaned from books, if one is so inclined. I was speaking of more physical pursuits.”

“How so?”

“I would like some time set aside, each day for training in the royal arena.”

“Certainly, we have some excellent swordsmen who can spar with you.”

“I’d like you to train me.”

Nikandros stilled. “Me?”

“Yes. I should like to be instructed in wrestling.”

Nikandros couldn’t help it. He imagined that marble white skin, smooth planes of muscle, covered in oil, glistening like a pearl. He flushed all over, it was sudden and deep. “Of course,” he stammered. He thought of his hands on the skin of that beautiful viper prince. What was Damen going to think?

Laurent bit back a teasing smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of a Veretian variation that won’t get you killed.” His expression turned serious. “Get some rest. The next few days will be challenging.”

Nikandros stood, paid his obeisance and left the royal chambers. 

He was beyond weary, his limbs were heavy and he thought longingly of the soft bed that awaited as he stumbled down the familiar hallways of his youth. When he had almost reached the rooms prepared for his use, he swore. Jokaste. Jokaste, her child and Hypermenestra, Kastor’s mother and the former mistress to King Theomedes. They were all missing from the palace. He needed to know how many resources Laurent was willing to deploy to find them.

After the disastrous meeting at the Kingsmeet when Laurent had been taken captive, Damen had told Nikandros that Jokaste had admitted the child was not his. He further explained that Jokaste had secretly been an ally to Damen all along. 

So far as Nikandros was concerned she was a beautiful, duplicitous, blonde-haired fiend. 

His steps pounded as he swept back to the royal chambers, ironically to discuss this with Laurent, a person he still suspected shared more than looks with Jokaste. The guards stood aside to allow him entry. When he reached the doorway to the bed chamber, he stilled.

Laurent was facing the door, probably so that he would be instantly alert to any intrusion.

Except that he was lying on his side in the royal bed and had already fallen into a sleep so deep that Nikandros’s booted footsteps had not roused him. He was curved around Damen who lay on his back. One of Laurent’s arms was flung across Damen’s chest, in protection or for comfort, Nikandros couldn’t say. Laurent’s lips were partially open and resting on the side of Damen’s neck. Damen’s head was tilted to one side so that his cheek rested atop Laurent’s fair hair. A stark contrast in ivory and russet but the image they presented showed they were unmistakably a match. 

Nikandros backed out and walked slowly to his own rooms. Laurent of Vere was the most confounding man he’d ever met. He didn’t like admitting it but he was deeply unnerved at witnessing such an intensely private and pure moment.


	5. Dreams, light and angels

**Damen**

He had woken in the depths of night. It was silent. A single candle flickered in the room, casting a long, eerie shadow. He turned his head to find Laurent next to him, above the covers, still wearing the filthy chiton. He said his name softly, but Laurent didn’t stir, so deep was his utter exhaustion. Damen was comforted by his nearness and fell back to sleep.

He drifted in and out of consciousness on that first day.

A shaft of sunlight hit his eyes. Morning. It was difficult to move. He was so weak. Everything hurt.

He blinked several times to clear his vision. He saw Laurent standing near. He’d been bathed. His hair was almost dry, fresh and fair. He was being dressed by servants, his back to Damen. He was haloed in morning light. It caught the ends of his gilt hair where it brushed the typically severe but finely made, dark fabric at his shoulder. Laurent was once again being hard-laced into traditional Veretian clothing. The Akielon slaves attending him looked nervous as they fumbled over the unfamiliar, ornate lacings. Turning his head over his shoulder and seeing Damen looking back at him, Laurent’s face transformed from haughty indifference into a beatific smile. The pale beauty of it made Damen’s breath catch in his throat. His eyelids lowered against his will.

He drifted.

When he opened his eyes again he smelled something. Incence? Candles? A ceremony was taking place in his chambers. There were many somber faces, people dressed in fine robes. Some of the faces were familiar but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall any names. 

Laurent stood next to his bed, the gold circlet resting on his fine brow. Deep voices murmuring, ancient passages, declaring something he knew. Then, Nikandros was kneeling and Laurent was placing a laurel on his head and attaching a pin to his breast. He read the official declaration. 

Nikandros, Kyros of Ios. 

Damen was overcome with happiness. He thought that Nikandros’s father would have been so proud. He smiled and his eyes grew heavy.

He drifted.

He sensed there was a great deal of activity going on around him, voices, footsteps. People touching his body. He wanted them to leave him alone. He was irritated.

Heat. So much heat. Getting hotter all the time.

Red, darkness. Swords. Danger. Mud. Blood.

His dreams became obscure and ever changing, a series of shadowy images and sensations.

Swaying movement, clouds.

Pain. The dull throb of healing. Then pain so sharp it could have been another knife entering his body.

Searing heat. Parched lips. A longing for water that eclipsed all other desires. A desperate longing.

Water. More water.

Nothing could quench his thirst.

If only he could escape the heat.

Everything disappeared. The heat. The pain.

Damen saw something in the distance, beyond the clouds. 

A man.

A tall man with broad shoulders. He knew him. He was a man he had loved. 

A strong man. 

An honourable man.

The man was much older than Damen and had a neatly clipped beard. Silver and white threaded through his hair. 

He wore a crown.

Damen reached for the man, smiling. The man’s face broke apart, returning the smile, his eyes proud. Damen experienced the strongest sensation of…home. 

The man stepped closer, opening his arms as though to embrace him. The closer he got, the darker his beard became, the lines disappeared from his face.

They were so close that Damen felt the heat of the other man’s body and then…the man stuck him in the belly with a shining blade. 

Damen life’s blood fell from his body. He watched it fall like red rain through the clouds into a deep abyss.

The man disappeared. Everything disappeared. Damen disappeared. 

All that existed were thoughts. Thoughts and white clouds.

He drifted.

He longed for something. He didn’t know what he longed for, couldn’t give it a name, but it tugged at him, tried to hold his attention. Wanted something from him. Implored him.

He ignored it. 

He was comfortable on the cloud, he gave himself over to it’s peace.

A bright light beckoned in the distance. It drew him. The light was beautiful. The light offered peace and comfort, an end to pain. There was a voice within the light, urging him closer. Damen moved toward the light. The voice was deep, resonant, familiar. His father. 

He longed to see his father again.

Damen felt a sudden and different type of heat. Not so much heat, it was more a tickling, irritable warmth, along his side. Something or someone was urging him to do something. Calling him back. 

An annoyance. Muffled words.

He looked to the side. He couldn’t see anything. The earlier longing that didn’t have a name returned, it grew stronger. It pulled at something deep inside. 

He looked down and saw his hand. The hand attached to an arm. He was within his body again.

Pain, heat returned. He didn’t like it. It hurt.

Then, a scent. Familiar, welcoming, comfort.

Something warm and wet was stroking against his skin, back and forth. He detected that scent again. He found he could name it. Jasmine and orange blossom.

His vision cleared but the images before him appeared hazy, as though being seen through a diaphanous veil.

He was being bathed by a white angel. The angel had the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.

The angel hovered over him, lifting his limbs to clean every part of his skin. Damen found his body respond to the touch. He yearned it, coveted it with an emotion that was startling in its intensity. It was different to any other touch he could remember. 

Finally the angel put down the cloth and leaned forward until his forehead rested on Damen’s chest. The angel’s hair spilled across his skin, soft as rabbit’s fur. The angel shoulders shook. He was weeping. 

Damen winced, the pain in his belly had returned with vengeance. He wondered what he had done to deserve such pain.

The angel moved but did not leave him. He lay alongside Damen, stroking the side of his face, running a hand over bicep and chest, holding his hand. The angel was speaking, imploring. He wanted something from Damen, wanted it desperately.

Damen could only understand one phrase that the angel seemed to repeat, again and again.

“Don’t leave. Don’t leave me alone.”

Damen wanted to comfort the angel but his arms wouldn’t work. He couldn’t seem to open his eyes either.

He drifted.

  



	6. The royal crypt

Insufferable, calculating and insightful. Somehow Laurent had known that this was right, that this was what Damen needed.

The palace at Ios had been built some three hundred years prior. The enormous royal crypt was designed to house centuries of kings. Pentelicus marble, a semi-circle of grey and white, one end open to the sea through five Doric columns. The tombs of kings were placed upright. In contrast, the kings’ likenesses were carved into the pure white, Parian marble on the seal of their sarcophagi, along with grandiose engraved words espousing the glory of their rule. On either side of each king’s tomb, family members; wives, unmarried or infant children, were placed horizontally.

It was the first time Damen had laid eyes on his father’s sealed tomb. The finality of it left a lump in his throat.

Next to the carving of Theomedes, an open space in the wall, awaiting the placement of his bastard son, Kastor. 

It had all been arranged with precise, unemotional authority by Laurent. Damen was certain that Nikandros would have pushed for something quite different, a public display of Kastor’s treason. But Laurent understood this type of loss in a way no one else would.

Three people alone knew the truth of Kastor’s passing. Damen, Laurent and Nikandros. The truth being that, after the chaos, the Regent exposed for his treasonous, traitorous plans to Vere and Akielos, Kastor had run. When Kastor was challenged, he attempted, yet again, to murder his brother. Instead, Kastor had been foiled, dispatched by Laurent.

A brother for a brother.

Damen didn’t want to think about that.

On a high bed Kastor lay in state. His body had been prepared, washed and anointed with oils, dressed in an ankle length chiton of heavy cotton which was edged in red and gold thread of interlocking angles known as Akielon key. His hair was clean and curled, his beard trimmed. In this moment, it was startling how much Kastor reminded Damen of their father. But Kastor would never be remembered as a king of Akielos. He would be remembered at best as a bastard, at worst an easily fooled imposter, a traitor.

There would be no funeral procession, no public viewing. There would only be this.

Damen had never been afforded the opportunity to grieve for his father. To take part in the rituals of death that were so important to his culture. 

Damen was barely strong enough to stand, a result of the extensive blood loss from where Kastor had sliced into his belly. His forehead beaded with sweat. The sharp, jagged bursts of pain in his abdomen, healing pain he was certain, were getting stronger the longer he stayed upright. He would return to his convalescence shortly but for now, he needed this.

He didn’t understand why it was important for him to mourn the passing of his brother. Was it substitution for grief at the loss of his father? Perhaps. It was also an opportunity to face his conflicting emotions about Kastor.

Brother, hero, quisling, enemy. 

Damen sat on a solid oak bench, leaned forward, his hands in his hair. From time to time he glanced up and studied Kastor, seeing his father, seeing himself. Remembering. 

His brother had even taken Jokaste from Damen, knowing that he’d loved her. Or had she offered herself? The only path forward she could see when Damen refused to listen.

He would not be so easily fooled again.

He was wiser. He also had Laurent as a weapon against future deception.

It was the first time he’d been afforded the space and time to really consider how all the events had played out. Only now, knowing the full story, he could look at it from every angle and consider the insidious influence of the Regent, how he had stoked Kastor’s jealousy over his loss of status as heir and used it to bring his traitorous plot to fruition. 

Damen remembered his own youthful arrogance, dismissing the wise counsel of Nikandros, even Jokaste. He could see now that she had sacrificed a great deal to save him.

Despite the washing and the oils, Damen could only smell death. Only a fool would mistake death for sleeping. A human’s skin, when blood no longer coursed through it, changed. It was not only pale and slack, it gave the body an unnatural appearance as though sculptured from clay.

Damen didn’t realise that his face was wet until fingers curved around his shoulder. This own hands were balled into fists. His tears were a mixture of rage, disbelief and grief.

Damen said, low-voiced, “I cannot fathom that level of envy, of entitlement. To allow him to throw away loyalty to family, to country and crown. To dispose of a younger brother who looked up to him, who-” His voice caught and he couldn’t continue.

“Damen,” Laurent’s fingers tightened. “You were always the better man.”

He released a bitter breath. “The better man who is considering what Nikandros wants? To put my brother’s head on a spike?”

“Put him in the family crypt. Honour him as you know you want to.”

“I,” Damen passed a hand over his face. He was weak and tired. His body ached and the pain in his belly was escalating. “I need more time.”

There was a curt, authoritative order, the clank of swords and booted steps growing fainter on the perimeter of the royal crypt. They were alone.

Damen felt warmth alongside his body. He took comfort in the proximity and familiarity.

“You are the Exalted,” said Laurent. He placed his palm over one of Damen’s clenched fists. Damen loosed his grip and their fingers linked. Laurent leaned his head against Damen’s shoulder, adding, “Take all the time you need.”

Lips brushed the side of Damen’s face. He turned his face and their mouths met. It was a kiss of comfort and tenderness, rather than desire. Laurent’s fingers moved through his curls. Damen leaned into the touch and closed his eyes.

“The sun will set soon. I’ll be waiting for you, when you are ready, in the gardens.”

There was a movement of air and a chilled absence at his side. Laurent left him to his dead and his memories.


	7. Snatched moments

**Nikandros**

The page, terrified at the prospect of approaching the Kyros of Ios, prostrated himself at his feet.

"Exalted. I am sorry to disturb you. Lady Demetria is demanding an attendance at your earliest convenience."

Nikandros didn't want to go around removing the heads from everyone who appeared to have lived in compliance during the brief period that Ios was under the control of Kastor and the Regent. Some were duped, others fearful or weak, but there were definitely a few who had been complicit, and they needed to be identified and dealt with. It was a lengthy and challenging task.

There were others still, like the pompous Lady Demetria and her long suffering husband, Lord Kleitos. Kleitos was fairly harmless, rotund and bald and usually puffing to keep up with Demetria and her inflated opinion of herself as she swept through the halls.

Like many minor nobility found in the palace, they had been confined to their rooms while Nikandros's investigators (interrogators and spies for the most part) discovered all that went on during the time that Kastor and the Regent were in control of the Capitol.

Lady Demetria had known Nikandros as an annoying youth, prone to playing pranks and running barefoot with Damen through the palace halls. She thought that allowed her the right to bully Nikandros into action.

Nikandros said, ”Tell Lady Demetria, she and Lord Kleitos may meet with me after breakfast, at the entrance to the traitor's walk. I would be more than satisfied to deal with them there. Conversely, she can wait upon my pleasure and possibly retain her head."

"Exalted," said the page, speaking to the stone flagged ground. He inched back on his knees, and when he deemed he was a respectable distance away, leapt to his feet and ran down the nearest passageway.

He found them, as he thought he might, in the beautiful walled garden in the protected northern wing of the palace.

Entranced, he watched, hidden behind a column at the top of the steps that led down to the garden.

They were snatching a few moments alone. Nikandros knew, having witnessed Laurent apply himself with vigour to the long and arduous task of securing their rule, they seized upon these snippets of time, brief as they were.

It was a breath before dusk, still warm, although a breeze ruffled Nikandros's curls. He inhaled the salt air, the comforting and familiar scent of his childhood.

At one end, the garden was open to the vista through gaps in a series of marbled columns. To the west the sky was changing, a kaleidoscope of slanted light in fuchsia, indigo and orange that lit up and changed the hue on the leaves of the trees from below. Combined with the mist from the sea air, the sinking sun cast the garden and the panoramic view in ever changing, hazy tones.

They sat on long seat, carved from marble. Laurent lay on his back, one knee raised, his head in Damen's lap. Damen's body was slightly curved so that his head was close. They appeared to be speaking private words, Damen's eyes roving every perfect feature on Laurent's face.

The closeness, the connection they seemed to have with each other, it made Nikandros crave something...similar.

Perhaps he should marry? As Kyros of the Capitol it would be expected. But he knew it was rare to find that perfect counterpoint in another. And marriage was often the last place one found it.

He sighed, slightly annoyed at the sentimentality of his thoughts. It was becoming a habit, being around these two.

The gardens were fringed with myrtle trees. They were in flower, a carpet of white spread beneath the overhanging branches also heavy with bloom. A few petals had landed in Damen's dark curls and Laurent reached up, removing them, twisting them in his long fingers and holding them in front of Damen's face, laughing.

It was so rare to see him laugh.

Without Damen noticing, Laurent slipped the petals into a pocket of his tightly laced clothing.

They had come so close to not having any of this.

#

It was late afternoon, the second day after Damen's injury, when his condition worsened. The physicians consulted each other, grim-faced before announcing there was nothing more to be done. Only time would decide Damen's fate.

"Get out," Laurent had said. His voice had been barely held above a whisper, and yet it was no less awful than if he had yelled at the top of his lungs. "Unless you want your tongue removed along with your lying words. Leave. Now. All of you."

The room emptied.

Everyone except Nikandros.

"He's not dying."

Nikandros said nothing. He sat on one side of Damen's bed, his thumb moving up and down on the underside of Damen’s feverish forearm.

Laurent said, "If you think he is, you can get out too."

"I'm not leaving him." Nikandros looked at Laurent. He saw the raw fear. It matched his own. "You forget, he was mine before he was yours."

Till the late dawn when it was at last clear that Damen was out of danger, they stayed with him, together. Something changed between them that night. Nikandros knew without any doubt that what Laurent felt for Damen was true and deep. Throughout that long night, Laurent had dropped the emotionless facade, all his defences lowered and exposed. He had wept over Damen's body, begging him to stay.

By late morning, Damen's breathing had eased, the fever had mostly passed and he was resting easy.

Laurent had announced, suddenly, "I'm going for a ride."

"You love him a great deal." Nikandros didn't know why he said it. It just slipped out.

"If you tell anyone, including Damen how I behaved last night, I will personally geld you with the paring knife I keep in my boot."

He had pushed his fair hair back from his face and stormed out of the chambers.

Laurent was still far too clever and conniving for Nikandros to trust him blindly. He smiled to himself. He couldn't help a growing fondness for the fair-haired viper.

Since the change in power at Ios, Nikandros had spent considerable time in the company of the Veretian prince. He had even, gods forgive him, begun to instruct Laurent in the rudiments of Akielon wrestling.

Nikandros had never been bothered by nudity, in himself or anyone else. It was a natural part of life in Akielos. For some reason, the thought of seeing _all_ of the Prince of Vere was scandalous. He told himself it was because nudity was transgressive behaviour for nobility in Veretian culture.

At any rate, Laurent attended his lessons bared only to the waist, wearing a thin pair of Veretian training pants, laced at the front. It gave Nikandros a small advantage, not that he needed one, he was vastly superior in experience and talent.

And yet, he found once he had explained and demonstrated an opening series of basic manoeuvres, he had to keep his wits about him. Laurent was a quick learner, shrewd and cunning when anticipating the moves of his opponent before they were attempted. With time and experience, he would be a worthy adversary.

Nikandros was also impressed by Laurent's strength. He gave the impression, perhaps because he so often stood next to Damen, of being slender. In reality, he was physically adept with a defined and well-honed musculature.

It still felt taboo; placing his hands on that fine, pale skin. It glistened with pearl-like luminescence when applied with oil. Nikandros had to consciously push thoughts away, of his hands on that skin, or Laurent's breath on his cheek as they were locked tight together in a practised hold.

He had been tumbling more slaves than usual of late. He told himself it was to relieve stress from adapting to his new role.

This morning, before the start of their lesson in the training arena, Nikandros had said, “How are you finding it, living in such a foreign place? Our customs must seem strange to you?” He hadn’t thought to ask before.

Laurent was pulling on the laces of a fine, almost translucent white shirt. He shrugged out of it and said, “Most of it was familiar to me through books. It is not the same as being here in person.”

Nikandros had removed his chiton, leaving only his sandals. He would not allow himself to feel self-conscious around this man. They both moved to the receptacle and dipped their hands in oil. Laurent rubbed it across his shoulders. He had a small scar on one shoulder. It was the only mark on his otherwise unblemished skin.

Laurent said, “The palace is exceptionally beautiful, the food is excellent, and I have Damianos for companionship now that he is cognisant.” His hand stilled where it had been smoothing oil over his belly. It rested above the thin line of darker but still fair hair that disappeared beneath brown cotton and laces. “I suppose I find the flopping of bare female breasts to be somewhat vulgar,” Nikandros made himself look up into Laurent’s eyes, “perhaps it is because my own proclivities do not lead me to find them appealing. Shall we begin?”

Laurent put his hand on Nikandros’s shoulder. Nikandros released a breath and made himself not hesitate to place his own hand on Laurent’s shoulder. First position. Laurent locked those limpid blue eyes on Nikandros and fluttered his lashes. “And I have your companionship. These lessons with you have been illuminating." Their cheeks brushed, muscles bunched and locked. Laurent breathed "It's quite the entertaining diversion.”

Nikandros fumbled his first hold. Before he could correct it, his eyes were on the ceiling and his back was covered in sawdust. Laurent's laughter was low but full of prideful delight. The Prince of Vere played dirty. He played to win.

Now, from his position behind the marble column he watched them both. Damen slid his fingers along Laurent's jaw and into his soft yellow hair, leaning for an upside down kiss. The young prince returned the gesture by winding his arms around Damen's neck and offering his mouth and all the delights it held. The light shone through the separation of his body from the seat as he raised himself to meet Damen's lips. They lingered, kissing softly. After a few moments Laurent lowered himself back onto the seat, his head resting again on Damen's lap. He left one arm on Damen's neck, stroking softly. They were gazing at each other and smiling, always smiling.

Damen was healing but he tired easily. He was clearly not strong enough to push this moment into something more.

They stood, Laurent giving extra support to Damen's elbow as he got himself vertical and they strolled, hand in hand, through the columns of trees in the orchid at the middle of the gardens. There were pears and pomegranates, figs and olives, all meticulously pruned into formal shapes. Damen picked an almost ripe green and yellow pear and brought it to his mouth. Laurent snatched the fruit out of his hands and reprimanded him sharply.

Damen was still confined to consuming broth. He was beginning to give everyone hell about it, a clear indication that it was only a short time before he would be well enough to prove his return to health and resume his duties.

Laurent was softening his cross words with a conciliatory kiss. Damen screwed his mouth into a grudging smile and was rewarded with another.

Nikandros cleared his throat and walked toward them.

He was sorry for it but these were the demands of kingship. For both of them.


	8. Escape

**Damen**

Damen was sated. His muscles ached pleasantly, the result of actually using them for the first time since his injury. He could feel it in his thighs, his back and his arms. It was sweet relief to be upright and active. He was dusty and so very tired. A little soreness, a twinge in the abdomen, but that was just a healing throb. He strolled into the royal chambers, smiling.

And was met with scowling haughtiness from Nikandros. “ _Damianos_ ,” he scolded like a nursery maid. “I’ve had soldiers out, looking for you everywhere.”

“I went for a ride. On the beach.”

Nikandros spluttered, “A ride? But your injury-”

“Is fine.” Damen said dismissively. His good mood was not to be soured. He had woken that morning to Laurent above him, perched on all fours so as not to put pressure on his wound. Laurent had dipped his head with playful nips and soft, deep kisses, the blonde tendrils of his hair drifting over Damen’s cheeks and eyelids, the taste of lips and tongue. It had been deliciously tempting and ended all too soon. Servants entered, ready to dress and prepare Laurent before he was taken off on some official task. Damen had been left alone, yet again, to recuperate and feel guilt at not doing his part.

They were fussing. Unnecessarily. All of them. The physicians, Laurent, Nikandros.

Recuperate be damned.

He was bored.

He was sick to death of broth.

He was also embarrassed at the excitement demonstrated by the physicians that morning when they arrived to find that he had used his chamber pot to move his bowels. A remarkable skill he’d been able to demonstrate since he was old enough to walk. 

Ridiculous.

He declared that he was ready to begin the resumption of normal duties but the physicians had admonished him, strongly advising at least two more days of bed rest. Fussing.

Damen’s imperious affront prickled over his skin.

No one had told him what he could or couldn’t do since he’d been old enough to swing a sword. With the minor exception of being slave to Laurent for some months he supposed. He decided that proof was necessary to strengthen his argument. And he was a man who believed actions could often speak louder than words. 

His method of doing so only proved that he had spent too much time in the scheming company of the Prince of Vere.

He decided to escape.

He’d grown up in this palace and he knew all the secret passages.

It had been exhilarating to get out of bed, slip quietly from his chambers, avoiding detection by his guard (he’d need to admonish them for that later) and make his covert way to the royal stables. There was a pleasing lack of activity in the stables when he arrived. Damen found a set of riding leathers, still concealed in his secret hiding place. He perused the stalls, choosing a large, fresh looking chestnut roan, a gelding. The horse nickered eagerly as Damen saddled him up, as though his own excitement had infected the beast.

There was a shout from a sleepy-looking stablehand at the sound of hooves clattering on stone. The youth stood dumbfounded, mouth hanging open at the imposing sight of Damen, astride, wheeling the mount and smiling. “Don’t worry, I’ll return him in a few hours.” Damen tipped a finger from his brow and was off.

The ride had been invigorating, the salt air whipped his face and filled his lungs, bracing and fresh. For a good hour, he was just Damen, not Damianos, recuperating King of Akielos, grieving son and brother. He was just Damen, still young and for the moment, absolutely free.

After the ride, he returned the gelding to the still gobsmacked stablehand, who prostrated himself, despite Damen’s request that it was not necessary. These ingrained behaviours would take time to change. 

Cocky as he felt at the success of his escape, Damen was more tired than he was willing to admit. He was also ravenous. He fully expected to be allowed to eat. Real food at last. Whatever he desired. And he desired something thick and juicy, full of flavour. He was willing to settle in and fight to get it.

As he navigated his way back to his chambers through a series of low ceilinged tunnels, he found the return of other desires too. He hoped that Laurent wasn’t going to be kept from him all day.

Now, as a silent standoff took place between Damen and a grim faced Nikandros, a breeze stirred behind and Laurent glided in, as fresh and fair as the start of a new day. He raised a single brow. “I see you have located the Exalted.”

Nikandros said, “I cannot believe you were not alarmed at his absence. Anything could have happened. The situation in Ios is not completely stable.”

Laurent scrolled a long, appreciative look, from Damen’s sandals to the tips of his windswept hair. “He appears unharmed. His colour is returned.” He leaned toward Damen and added, “Very nice.” Damen bit the inside of his cheek as Laurent asked him, meltingly, “Are you quite well, my king?”

Damen smiled with all his teeth. “Spectacular.”

Laurent feathered a hand through the back of his hair as though to cool the skin on his neck. He was not totally acclimatised to the warmer weather. “You may leave, Kyros. I shall see you for our usual instruction, in the morning.”

Nikandros flushed, hard. “Of course,” he stammered. His eyes darted between Laurent and Damen, as though expecting further elaboration from Laurent. When none was forthcoming, he narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, breathed out through his nose and bowed to his king, less deeply to Laurent and swept out of the room.


	9. Reticence

Damen said, “What have you been doing to Nikandros?”

“Giving him instruction. On your behalf. While you languished,” an elaborate Veretian gesture toward the bed, “over there.”

Damen stepped forward. “Well. Thank you.” Another step. “I believe my morning escapade has proven my ability to resume active duty.”

Laurent regarded him with a heavy lashed look. “As you wish.” There was an attractive flush on Laurent’s cheeks. Damen wasn’t sure if it was from the Akielon summer or something else. He stepped until he was close enough to rest his hands on Laurent’s hips, then a little lower. His fingers moved over the thin silk of the fabric, his palms warming from the heat of Laurent’s skin.

“Hello,” Laurent breathed. He blinked up into Damen’s eyes.

“How long do we have until your next official duty?”

“I have time to lunch with you.”

“Damn the lunch.”

Damen inclined his head and took Laurent’s mouth. The kiss was sweet and unhurried.

But then it hit him, his body still recovering, dizziness, and a weariness that sank into his very bones. He continued the kiss but didn’t urge it into something more. They could go slow and savour. There was no need to rush. Not anymore.

Sensing Damen’s reserve, Laurent pulled back, his smile small and sweet. “Ah,” he said.

Damen returned the smile, relieved at Laurent’s display of empathy.

Laurent turned and strolled about the room. He moved with regal grace. He picked up an urn and studied it, as though assessing the quality of the workmanship, which was excellent. It had been a gift from King Torgeir of Patras to Damen’s mother Egeria, before Damen had been born.

“I want you to know that I understand,” his words rolled slowly off his tongue. He was speaking Akielon with his slight Veretian accent. Damen thought about how much it delighted him, hearing Laurent speak to him in his own language.

Damen said, “It can’t be helped.”

“No.”

“It seems I need more time after all.”

“I hardly think time will make much of a difference.”

“It’s only a wound, Laurent. It heals more every day.”

Laurent looked up, watching him in that careful way he sometimes did. Damen sensed something at odds with his placid demeanour.

Laurent said, “I don’t expect you to feel the same.” He put the urn back in place and traced his finger slowly around the circular lid. “Forget about it.”

“Forget what?”

Laurent had moved across the room to a bronze bust, it rested on a block of marble in a curved alcove. Damen liked that Laurent was interested and appreciative of the beauty of the palace and the artworks on display. The bust was of King Agathon, the first king of Akielos. Laurent touched each frozen feature, each unmoving curl of hair. “I can see your face, your expression at the Kingsmeet, even with my eyes closed.”

The blood loss must have caused his thinking to slow, because Damen was feeling a step behind in this conversation.

He walked across to where Laurent now stood, leaning against one of the balcony pillars, the sky and the ocean at his back. Perhaps Laurent had expected more from their kiss after all? Feeling brazen, Damen took Laurent into his arms and pressed his lips to the fair brow.

“I was tired from the ride. That’s all. Why are we talking about the Kingsmeet?”

“It can wait.” His body was radiating tension, just like the old, reticent Laurent.

Damen wasn’t having it. “No. Now.”

Laurent shrugged out of Damen’s arms and moved further inside, leaning against a cool wall. His face was expressionless. But Damen didn’t like that he had moved away from him. Twice. Something was off.

Laurent drawled, “You, the epitome of honour.” He lifted one knee; bracing his foot against the wall and let his head roll back. “I know you care for me, that you want this mad plan of ours to succeed. A unified kingdom.” He stepped away from the wall and took a few steps toward Damen, hesitating before he drew too close. He gave the barest shrug with one shoulder and tucked a wick of blonde hair behind his ear. His manner was blithe when he said, “Naturally, intimacy with me will be less…desirable than before.”

“What?” Damen felt the room tilt.

“It cannot be the same. Not for someone like you.”

“You are speaking in riddles.”

Despite his casual mannerisms, the marble white of Laurent’s skin bloomed red on his cheeks and neck. “Knowing now about the sickness,” his mouth twisted, “the _taint_ that existed between my uncle and myself…it has changed how you feel about me…in an intimate sense.”

Damen didn’t remember crossing the short distance between them but found his fingers curled around Laurent’s shoulders. It was building within him, sudden heat, anger and something else. He was clutching harder than he meant to. He said, “That was the Regent’s sickness. It has nothing to do with you.”

Laurent’s smile was bitter. “My noble barbarian.” He touched Damen’s cheek and let his hand fall away. His eyes were dull. “Even now, after all this time in my company, you still think in straight lines. Have you learned nothing? These matters are more twisted than you realise. I carry-"

“No!” The word ripped out of Damen’s throat. His fingers were digging hard into Laurent’s shoulders. “His sickness doesn’t touch you. How could you think that? I told you in Karthas. I told you…” Damen’s voice had risen. His skin was flushed with affront and passion. He forced himself to lower his voice and speak with slow, punctuated words, “I told you, I have _never_ felt like this.”

“We haven’t been together that way,” Laurent swallowed. “Since,” he released a breath, looking down.

Insistent fingers pushed his chin back up, forcing him to meet Damen’s eyes. “You know better than anyone, they were prey, Nicaise, Aimeric. You. You were a _child_. His nephew. Alone. Grieving.”

Laurent released a bitter laugh. “The truth is more difficult and…complicated.”

“What the Regent did was despicable.”

And with that, Laurent’s restraint fell away. He spat, “And what of me? I allowed it to happen. I'm a perversion, just as much a monster.”

The pain of knowing Laurent felt guilt for what he had endured from the Regent was making it difficult for Damen to breathe. He had let go of Laurent to ball his hands into fists and his fingernails bit crescent moons into his skin. He said, “You were a victim. You had no power.”

As though the truth being revealed through Damen’s eyes left him too exposed, Laurent turned away again. Damen’s breathing was loud in the room. Laurent didn’t seem to be breathing at all. Damen reached for him blindly and pulled his back into his chest, squeezing his arms around him, pressing his cheek into his hair. Laurent was unresponsive, his entire body rigid.

“It. Changes. Nothing.”

Laurent turned in his arms. His blush had subsumed and he appeared deathly pale. The vulnerability he was trying to mask made Damen’s heart ache. After a long, painful moment Laurent said, “What are you saying? You still desire me?” He lifted his chin. His sniff was derisive and full of self-hatred. “The child who allowed that…depravity.”

Blood pounded in Damen’s head. “No.”

Laurent sagged.

“I want the man who survived it.” Those words hit Laurent hard. Shock and something like disbelief. He opened his mouth and inhaled sharply. Damen cupped his face, his fingers sank into the silken hair, and his thumbs brushed his cheeks. Words were difficult and thick. “You remember how great my need was for you at Karthas?”

Laurent nodded and closed his eyes.

Damen’s hands slid over Laurent’s shoulders, down his spine. He held his hips, pulling them flush against each other. He showed him hard, irrefutable proof of his desire. Damen said, “Knowing everything…” He could stand it no longer. He kissed him. His tongue was forceful and possessive. He didn’t stop until Laurent’s body became pliable, boneless. Damen pulled back and ran his thumb over Laurent’s wet and swollen lower lip. “Knowing everything? More.” He punctuated his point with another hard, brief kiss. “I want you more.”

Laurent gripped the back of Damen’s head and pulled their mouths back together. The kiss was brutal, the sound of teeth clashing and harsh breaths filling each other's lungs.

But Damen wasn't finished. He pulled back and shook Laurent's shoulders a little. “It’s not only my desire. What of you? _What_ do _you_ want?” He needed this. He longed to hear him say it, never believing he would.

Laurent’s eyes burned. Damen saw the internal struggle, the years of suppression, the unprotected truth beneath the heavily fortified surface. They stared at each other, a deep frown creasing Laurent’s smooth skin.

When he spoke it was between breaths that seemed to hurt him, “The most valuable lesson uncle taught me? If you allow another to know your weakness, your deepest desire? They get a weapon. The most powerful weapon to wield against you, to exploit you…I wasn’t always so cold. I-” He paused, closing his eyes. His lashes were pale and curved like a young maiden.

When his eyelids lifted, those startling blue eyes shone. His defences were shattered, gone. “Realise my level of trust when I tell you this…” He inhaled, holding then releasing his breath in a rush. “I want you, Damen. I want you so much I can’t-”

Damen felt those words fill him up. He didn’t know which one of them started the kissing, only that they were in the midst of it, and that it was everything, a breakthrough, a beginning. They were mouths and tongues and breath, desperate to seek, desperate to give of themselves, to be closer.

Laurent hissed into Damen’s mouth, “Make me forget. Everything but this. Burn with me.”

After his ride on the beach, Damen had changed back into a simple chiton. Laurent made light work of it. He yanked the clasp at Damen’s shoulder and his determined fingers slid over Damen’s torso, pinching his nipples once, hard. He moulded his hands over every muscle before they descended to the second tie at Damen’s waist. At the same time, Dame pulled the first lace at Laurent’s throat. It released from the eyelet so quickly that it whipped, stinging his fingers. He didn’t care. Damen’s chiton pooled on the floor. He stood naked except for the leather sandals that wound around to mid calf on each leg. He was pulling each of the laces on Laurent’s brocade jacket using both hands. Laurent’s tongue was in his mouth. The jacket was undone. Laurent was shrugging out of it while Damen attacked the laces of the fine white shirt beneath, tearing it in his eagerness for it to be gone.

Laurent’s fingers whispered over the scar on his abdomen, newly healed, still tender, an angry red slash. “Will this be alright?”

“I swung on and off my saddle with ease."

"Liar."

Damen captured his lips in a rough kiss, letting him taste his need. His words were sex drenched, "I am healed enough. I need you.”

Laurent wrapped his hand around Damen’s manhood, fisted him and claimed him. Damen squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by a growing, dark and terrible lust. The pain from his injury was forgotten. His earlier weariness was forgotten. The only lingering affliction was the knowledge that Laurent had doubted this one, bright thing that existed between them.

He groaned and pushed his tongue to meet Laurent’s inside his mouth.

Laurent was naked to the waist, smooth ivory skin, defined musculature, and hard pinked nipples. He showed no restraint, freer than any time they had been together. He pulled on Damen’s hair; claiming his mouth, sliding his hands over the skin of Damen’s back, then lower, bringing their bodies together, delicious friction. The silk that clothed Laurent’s lower half masked nothing of his visible arousal. Damen rubbed his cock against Laurent, seeking purchase, some sort of relief. Laurent raised one of his legs; it slid ineffectively up and down along Damen’s hip.

Then, decisively, he anchored his arms around Damen’s shoulders and jumped. “Is this alright?” he panted.

In response, Damen grabbed Laurent's upper thighs, holding him against the wall while Laurent's legs wrapped around him. They began a broken rhythm, thrusting against each other in a futile act to connect. The skin of Laurent’s back was moving up and down against the smooth stone of the wall.

Damen pulled his mouth away. Laurent looked at him in shock at the separation, his mouth was swollen and red. Damen said, “Drop your legs.” His voice was gravel. Laurent complied and Damen tucked his thumbs into the top of Laurent’s silken courtiers clothes and yanked down. Laurent lifted his leg and Damen, drew off the first boot, throwing it over his shoulder. The second. He pulled the lower garment clear from Laurent’s body. Then, unable to stop himself, he took Laurent into his mouth, humming as he went down and up several times, pausing to suck hard and tongue the head. Laurent threw his head back and made an animal-like noise of encouragement.

Damen stood and Laurent jumped again, Damen catching his legs with ease. He slid him up the wall until he was the perfect height. Legs wrapped and they continued rocking, Damen’s cock poised at Laurent’s entrance, nudging with helpless need.

“I want it. Yes.”

Damen's thoughts were not lucid. He wasn’t thinking beyond a basic and primal drive for closer and more. There was only Laurent, his skin, his smell, the two of them, like this. His mouth was open, tasting the salt of Laurent's shoulder. He dragged his tongue along the thin ridge of scar tissue, sucked it, and claimed it. Then he pushed.

Laurent was ready. Damen entered, raw, rough, bracing.

The inarticulate noise Laurent made this time had pain inside it but he shook his head helplessly, saying, “No. Keep going.”

Damen stilled and rested his forehead on Laurent’s collarbone, breathing hard. Then he raised his head and his lips brushed Laurent's ear. “I’m going to fuck you hard but I won’t fuck you dry.”

He pulled out and Laurent made another noise, almost a sob. It was filled with want. With Laurent still wrapped around him, Damen walked the few steps toward the bed, Laurent's thighs were flexing with effort to hold on. There was a vial of oil on a low table. Damen picked it up. Laurent leaned back, creating a small space between their bodies while Damen poured the oil directly onto his cock. Some of it dripped onto the floor. He rubbed his hand over his length, and then circled his oiled fingers over Laurent’s entrance, pushing in only twice. He moved Laurent to the wall directly beside the bed. Pushed him up against it.

Found the place where they could be joined. He was inside in an instant. He met no resistance.

Laurent had opened for him, again.

They were moving. It was fast. Laurent was using the muscles of his thighs to ride Damen’s cock. Damen was meeting each downward slide with an upward thrust. Their movements were in perfect but frantic harmony. Breaths were harsh and fast. It was tight, oiled and perfect. They were mouths together, dragging across cheeks, tongues tasting, and random words.

Damen’s mouth was at Laurent’s neck, sucking. He was probably marking him.

Laurent panted the words, low-voiced, “That second night…the fever…when I thought I might lose you…” He tangled fingers in Damen’s curls, pulling his mouth back to his. A long, deep kiss. “I haven’t felt pain like that…since…Auguste.”

Kissing, fucking, skin, warmth.

Laurent held his breath, all his muscles tightened. His head dropped back, hitting the wall, and he was releasing into the air. Damen didn’t want it to stop but he was thrusting too fast to prevent it. He came, powerfully, deep inside Laurent. He was immediately dizzy, resting his forehead on Laurent’s shoulder, bracing him against the wall so that he didn’t fall over.

Both their skin raised into gooseflesh as their sweat began to cool. Damen’s heartbeat was in his ears.

“I’m going to fall over,” said Damen.

Laurent braced his thighs to lift himself, to separate them, and lowered his legs to the floor. With an arm around Damen they walked the few steps to the bed and fell upon it. They tangled back together and kissed, bodies heavy and replete.

For the first time, to Damen’s delight, Laurent was allowing this; close, intimate, post coital contact. The drift of hands was soft and wonderful.

With whispered words, punctuated with kisses, Laurent began talking. He spoke to Damen of the decisions made over the last few days, bringing Ios to order, of plans for the future. There was still so much for them to do and Damen felt some guilt that Laurent had been required to tackle all of this, alone, without friends, in a strange and foreign land.

Damen was also overwhelmed with a deep yet satisfying exhaustion. His stomach chose that moment to make a loud, yowling noise of protest.

As if on cue, there was a clanking of platters at the entrance to the chambers.

“Lunch, Exalted.” Two slaves were prostrating themselves on the floor. The smell of meat wafted.

“Don’t worry,” said Laurent. “There's no broth and I ordered enough for three.”

Damen’s brow wrinkled.

Laurent smiled. “Enough for a man…and a giant animal.”

 

_Fin_

 


End file.
